Serena didn't sleep.
Not because she was afraid—she refused to give anyone the satisfaction—but because her mind was too busy assembling and rearranging pieces.
The first message had been a game.
The second… a promise.
By morning, she had decided that whoever was behind the camera wasn't just an opportunist—they were testing her. Watching her reactions, seeing if she'd panic.
They'd be disappointed.
---
At 9:15 a.m., she walked into Damien Blackwood's private office on the top floor of the Montclair as though she owned it. He was on a call, but ended it the moment he saw her.
"You didn't mention the second message," he said without preamble.
Her eyebrow arched. "So you knew I got one?"
"I know when someone is messing with my property," he replied. "And last night, that booth was mine. Which means they were on my ground."
"Then you should be just as interested in finding them as I am."
He leaned back in his chair, studying her with the kind of calm that felt almost like a challenge. "What's your plan, Langford?"
She sat across from him, crossing her legs deliberately. "We give them exactly what they want—an excuse to watch us. But this time, we control the terms."
Damien's mouth curved slightly. "You're suggesting we… put on a show?"
"Not a show. A spectacle."
---
The Plan
By noon, the details were in motion. They'd 'accidentally' be spotted at one of the city's most exclusive lunch venues—the kind of place where every whispered conversation had a dozen people straining to listen. The kind of place with enough glass, reflections, and open sightlines that anyone tailing them would have to expose themselves to get a good shot.
Damien handled the reservation. Serena handled the wardrobe—black silk dress, sharp-cut blazer, diamond cufflinks that caught the light. Power, packaged and weaponized.
They agreed on one unspoken rule: whatever happened inside, they had to look like co-conspirators.
---
Le Chandelier, Paris
The restaurant was already buzzing when they arrived, Damien's hand at the small of her back like it belonged there. Heads turned—not just because they were two of the most recognizable figures in the business world, but because together they radiated the kind of energy that made people wonder whether they were looking at a partnership or a storm waiting to break.
They were seated in the center section, all marble tables and crystal chandeliers, with a view of the front entrance and the street beyond.
Serena's eyes flicked casually to the glass panels along the wall. Reflections layered over reflections—her favorite kind of hunting ground.
---
Damien poured them both wine. "Three o'clock, corner booth. Guy in the navy suit, pretending to check his phone every ten seconds."
"I see him," Serena murmured, not moving her head. "One of yours?"
"No. One of yours?"
"No."
They kept their voices low, leaning just enough to suggest intimacy to any watching lens.
Two more possible watchers revealed themselves in the next twenty minutes—a woman with oversized sunglasses who ordered nothing but coffee, and a man near the bar who seemed more interested in the door than the drink in his hand.
Serena tapped the rim of her glass lightly, the agreed-upon signal.
Damien's eyes darkened with something almost like anticipation. "Ready?"
"Always."
---
They didn't move suddenly; that would spook the watchers. Instead, Serena laughed at something Damien said—a sound just loud enough to carry—then reached over and placed her hand on his.
Every camera in the room, hidden or otherwise, would be snapping.
From there, they rose together, Damien settling the bill with casual efficiency before guiding her toward the side exit—the one with only one way in or out. Lyra was already waiting outside, idling in a discreet black SUV.
If any of the watchers followed, they'd have no choice but to come close enough for her to tag their faces.
---
It worked.
Through the tinted window, Serena watched as Navy Suit emerged first, phone in hand. Sunglasses followed thirty seconds later.
But the man from the bar never appeared.
Damien noticed too. "We had three. Where's number three?"
"Already gone," Serena said, frowning. "Which means he wasn't watching us—he was watching them."
For the first time that day, Damien's expression shifted from calculated confidence to something sharper. "Langford… I think our little trap just caught the wrong prey."